


pulse

by preromantics



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Introspection, M/M, Senses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:18:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preromantics/pseuds/preromantics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Derek leaned in to that flicker of a challenge in Stiles’ heartbeat, dragging his nose under Stiles’ ear for the briefest of seconds before claiming his mouth, already open wide on a <i>yes</i>, Derek already knew more of the intricacies and tells to each beat in the rhythm of Stiles’ pulse than anyone else in his life at that moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pulse

**Author's Note:**

> First day of a little personal 30 day writing challenge for the prompt 'pulse'.

Everyone has an individual pulse, rhythmic and unique, when Derek cares enough to listen to each measure of a particular heart beating. 

The first were automatic: his mother’s, every other beat a little stronger than the middle, matched to the pace of her steps on their wooden floors, his father’s pulse, equal parts strong and measured -- together, the way both of their pulses paired to make a steady back-and-forth, matched beat for beat when they were at their best. Derek learned Laura’s pulse, racing with constant excitement, always three beats ahead of herself. He learned the rest of his family, learned the humans around them, the tell of their lies and emotions, how to seek out a person by the resting rate of their pulse. 

Resting pulses are the easiest to pinpoint, and Derek can remember a time when they were almost all rhythms of comfort, family, pack. (Later, memories of a blinding, racing terror, beating as one, catching his breath in his throat any time he remembered, pulse quickening automatically in time with the rush.)

Now Derek memorizes the rhythm of some heartbeats out of necessity, safety; Chris Argent, a quickly beating drum, Sheriff Stilinski, irregular, maybe medically, but no less steady for that, others that flit in and out of his life, dead or far gone, threats.

It’s gradually different, though, as Derek settles his life down just a little more, and maybe Derek won’t ever be able to find the same sort of comfort in a single pulse that he had in so many when he was young, trusting. But it’s getting easier now to find himself listening in to the people around him, slowly cataloging familiar steady beats before he even realizes it. The pack becomes familiar the fastest before Derek realizes he’s even back to charting out each pulse in his life.

Isaac, curled up on the couch in the warehouse, no particular pattern to the nights he chooses to stay, his pulse a soft and steady background hum, fluttering every few minutes. 

Erica, mostly on the weekends, passed out on curled up in the armchair because she and Isaac seem to be deadlocked in some sort of chivalry chicken involving the couch or standing next to him in the woods, pulse always racing like something exciting might be right around the corner, even in sleep. 

Boyd, a carefully measured sort of pounding, unchanging through sleep or arguments, jumping, Derek notices, only at the rare careful touches Erica gives, a steady hand on his arm before he even realizes he needs it. 

Those pulses and heartbeats are easy, a new and still-forming extension of Derek himself, of pack. Derek knew the sound of Scott’s heartbeat the day he was turned, the day he popped up on Derek’s radar. 

The humans he comes to learn, too. Jackson and Lydia out of suspicious necessity, Allison as Derek learns the way each Argent sounds, the bite of ash at the back of his throat. Stiles.

Stiles, unnecessary to know at all, the overly telling jump and beat of his heart a constant unavoidable presence until Derek has it memorized, too. 

The irregular rapid jump to it, at first unbearably human, breakable, but stronger over time as Derek got used to the nuances of it, the beat of Stiles’ pulse he could almost see through the long pale line of his neck, jumping and racing in the least obvious of moments, strong and hard and in the face of danger, pounding and steady when he had to defy that danger. 

And Derek didn’t mean to catch the differences, didn’t mean to watch the flicker under Stiles’ jaw so closely, didn’t mean to catch the inside of Stiles’ wrist with his thumb to feel the beat there, echoed in his head, the only tell in the jump of his pulse a sort of challenge Derek couldn’t bring himself to meet. 

Not then, anyway. Three days later, maybe. 

The first time Derek leaned in to that flicker of a challenge in Stiles’ heartbeat, dragging his nose under Stiles’ ear for the briefest of seconds before claiming his mouth, already open wide on a _yes_ , Derek already knew more of the intricacies and tells to each beat in the rhythm of Stiles’ pulse than anyone else in his life at that moment. 

There ends up being more to learn, though, with the flicker Stiles’ pulse under Derek’s casual touches growing fainter and fainter until the steady rhythm stays entirely intact, a contentedness taking its place and only encouraging Derek to touch more often. Derek learns the rapidness for danger, for insecurity, for lust. 

He learns how to feel the perfect jumping beat under his fingertips, dragging his lips down Stiles’ spine to a different end point each time. The difference between triumphant and frustrated, learned with Stiles’ hands on either side of Derek’s jaw, applied later to conversations neither of them wanted to have. He learns the flicker of a lie told to protect and a lie told to evade something bigger. Derek learns the rhythm of post-orgasmic bliss, of confusion, of desperation in the best way, and of a new sort of singular happiness that seems to only apply for Stiles around Derek.

And he wants to learn even more. The thought is less startling than it should be, when Derek admits it to himself.

Derek rolls over, sucks a breath through his nose that splits the whitenoise silence of the room, still barely noticeable over the steady and content rhythm of Stiles’ heart beside him. Stiles is curled in on himself, the line of his spine curved and visible, marked on either side with fingertip bruises that Derek knows will fade to a pale mottled yellow by morning. 

It’s almost dusk, the woods outside coming more and more alive every few minutes, so Derek figures it’s as good a time as any to sleep, that his thoughts will still be there in the morning. He reaches down to tug the quilt up, slides an arm over Stiles’ chest to pull him in closer.

“S’nice,” Stiles mumbles half-awake, rocking backwards until his back nestles fully against the curve of Derek’s chest. “Warm.”

“Go back to sleep,” Derek tells him, unable to not duck his head in to rest his nose along the underside of Stiles’ jaw. 

The close and steady pulse seems to echo in double when Derek settles and closes his eyes and he listens for a few seconds, puzzled but unalert. He breathes out when the echo doesn’t stop and catches the difference as he does, the measure of his own breathing, the one sound of a pulse Derek doesn’t pay much attention to, his own, matching Stiles’ beat for beat.


End file.
